The Boundaries of Objectivty
by Mingsmommy
Summary: Spoilers for 4X3, Minimal Loss; takes place between the last two scenes. "The look in Rossi’s eyes, something in his face when he’d said, “We’ve got to get you out of here.”


**Rating:** Rated PG13/FRT, profanity  
**Pairing:** Prentiss/Rossi  
**Summary:** Spoilers for _Minimal Loss_ 4X3, takes place between the last two scenes.  
**Disclaimer: ** Haven't we already been through this? I don't own Criminal Minds and I am making no profit from the writing of this fic.  
**smacky30** betaed this on short notice, on the busiest work weekend of her life. Though she doesn't share my intense love for the semi-colon, she is a wonderful beta and a beautiful friend.

* * *

She borrows a cell phone and calls Hotch from the exam room of the ER while she's waiting for her prescription and discharge papers. Making the call will distract her from the antiseptic smells and too bright fluorescents as well as her own overly active brain.

"How are you doing?" His usual gravitas is threaded through with a more personal inquiry and she suddenly feels her throat thicken.

Prentiss coughs lightly and blinks rapidly, glad he isn't there to see her; acting is easier over the phone. "Like I told Reid, it looks worse than it is."

There's a heavy pause and she can almost hear him raise his eyebrows in that way he has that conveys all manner of doubt over whatever line is being fed to him. "Is it really?"

She sighs. He'd see the medical report anyway. "A black eye, split lip, a few stitches, a couple of bruised ribs, one cracked one." Prentiss shrugs even though she knows he can't see, then she regrets the movement when her rib protests.

There's a beat of silence, then he speaks with just a touch of lightness. "Well, if it looks worse than it is, you must look rougher than I remember."

She snorts inelegantly into her phone. "I think we can all agree I _do_ look like hell."

"Is that everything?"

Absently, she traces a crease in the paper covering the exam table. "Well, no."

"Emily?" She could hear concern and authority warring in his tone.

"The doctor says I need to wait thirty-six hours before I fly." The paper crinkles as she shifts. "They did a scan and nothing showed up, but he's worried that with the bruising…"

She lets him fill in the blanks. The doctor doesn't want to risk an embolism brought on by the manipulated air pressure of an airplane.

It's a minute before Hotch speaks. It hasn't been all that long since he was been grounded. "That's fine. Wrapping up here should take at least that long."

Emily knows very well once the case is over and everyone is debriefed, all of the "wrapping up" is handled by e-mail and fax. How long they stay is entirely at Hotch's discretion. "I can fly home on a commercial flight."

"Emily," there's a note of impatience in his the way he says her name and she know she's pushed this as far as she should, "another thirty-six hours is not a big deal. We can use the time."

"All right." Taking a deep breath, she rushes on. "Uh, Hotch? Could I ask a favor?"

"You can ask." He's naturally wary and she doesn't blame him. Part of leading this team is striking the balance between toeing the line and allowing leeway. He's very good at it. She thinks it costs him more than any of them will ever know, but they all guess and it accounts for a good part of their intense loyalty to him.

"Could you…" She stops, starts again. "Would you mind keeping the details between us?"

The breath he releases surprises her. What had he thought she was going to ask? "If that's what you want."

"It is," she affirms.

"Emily," his voice lowers a little as if he's no longer alone, "I think we all feel a little protective of Reid, but minimizing your…contribution to the situation isn't necessary. He's probably already thinking it's even worse than this."

She almost laughs that he's assumed she's protecting Spencer. Yeah, she needs to talk to him at some point, but it's not Reid she's worried about knowing the extent of her injuries. Hiding the black eye or the split lip would be impossible, but no one but Hotch has to know the rest.

_The look in Rossi's eyes, something in his face when he'd said, "We've got to get you out of here."_

But she's too tired to think too hard about what all that means right now. "I was just doing my job," and she doesn't bother to hide the weariness in her voice.

Hotch's voice is softer, "And how well you did your job saved a lot of lives, Emily. Don't forget that."

The tired smile that almost breaks out is cut short by the pull on her injured lip. "I won't. Thanks, Hotch."

"It's the truth. Hold on a second." She hears him say something to someone about the Colorado Attorney General's office, then he comes back to her. "Have you got a way back to the hotel?"

"Yeah, one of the county deputies is waiting outside. I'm on his phone." A wave of exhaustion washes over her and she shakes her head. "I'll see you back there."

Shortly after she hangs up, the nurse brings her paperwork and she signs herself out. She returns the cell phone to the deputy, an older man who reminds her of the grandfatherly gardener from the embassy at Reykjavik. Deputy Cooper had sat with her and talked to her while she waited for the harried ER doctor to see her. Several of the children from the compound had needed breathing treatments due to the smoke and at least one of Cyrus's inner circle had made it to the hospital alive despite multiple gunshot wounds and several burns.

_As the more critical patients were seen, the deputy filled her in on what he knew about what happened outside during the standoff, including the beating Cyrus had given her. "Never seen men in so much pain, who weren't wounded themselves." He shook his head. "I don't know how bad you're hurt, Agent Prentiss, but I'd be willing to bet Agent Morgan and Agent Hotchner would rather have taken that beating themselves. Was all Agent Rossi could do to keep 'em from storming the building."_

_As she'd adjusted the ice pack the Triage nurse had given her for her face, Emily sighed. "I think it would have been a lot worse if they had."_

"_Yeah," the deputy allowed. "That's what Agent Rossi said." There was a thoughtful pause. "He's a cool one, isn't he?"_

"_Yeah," she agreed, thinking the heat in his eyes from that moment in the tunnel just might stay with her forever._

When Deputy Cooper drops her at the hotel with a kind word about taking care of herself, the sun has been up for a couple of hours but the lobby of the hotel is nearly deserted. Those that aren't still at the scene are hopefully sleeping. Her key card is in her purse and at this point she has absolutely no idea where that is. Thankfully, someone seems to have briefed the desk clerk who issues her another card with a sympathetic smile and no questions.

Once she's in her room, decorated in beige and sage as they all seem to be these days, she gingerly peels herself out of her blouse and drops it in the trash. Even if she could get the blood out she doesn't want a reminder of this experience every time she flicks through the clothes in her closet. Next, she unravels the ace bandage the doctor had swathed around her middle and secured just under her bra, while she tries to determine the best way to keep the gauze bandages dry. There's one just above the crest of her left breast, six stitches there. Though the ER doctor did recommend she see a plastic surgeon once she gets back to DC in order to minimize scarring, she won't. She's not that vain and she earned that scar. Besides, she thinks of Rossi and knows her scar is smaller than what he'll carry away with him. The other bandage is on her arm, eight stitches and a fairly large bruise, as well.

Jessica's mother had done a decent job of first aid. She had gotten all the pieces of the mirror out of both cuts and bandaged them well, but there hadn't been a lot she could do for the bruising and the ribs. Shuddering as she remembered the impact of Cyrus's boot on her torso, Emily tells herself to be grateful the rib is only cracked. She wouldn't have done anyone any good with a lung punctured by a broken rib.

Moving to her duffel bag she extracts the small first aid kit she keeps in the side pocket. It's not much but it'll do for now. As she pulls out the medical tape she notes her purse and cell phone laid out below the mirror. Briefly, she wonders who retrieved them from the scene and dropped them in her room. JJ she hopes, but the way both items are perfectly parallel to the edge of the dresser tell her it was either Rossi or Hotch. Knowing Hotch was still at the scene shortly before her return only leaves Rossi. For some reason, the idea of him in her room makes her flush hotly, and she's grateful she's alone and no one can see her idiocy.

Taking the tape, the small pair of scissors from the kit and the plastic liner from the ice bucket, she moves to the bathroom. She holds the plastic up to her breast eyeing the size and shape of the bandage, then she cuts a rectangle slightly larger than the gauze pad out of the liner and tapes it onto her chest, wincing at the slight pressure she has to exert to get it to stay in place, but overall it's not too bad.

All in all, this was probably the best way things could have ended. Of course, the ideal would have been if the Colorado State Police hadn't stormed the ranch, but they had and everyone had to live with the way it turned out. She thinks of guilt and the stricken face of Jessie's mother and what Rossi's face would have looked like if the beating had been any worse as she wraps the remainder of the liner around the bandage on her arm.

Turning the shower as hot as she can stand, she sheds the rest of her clothes and steps over the rim of the tub slowly and carefully. The water streams over her and washes away the grime of the last three days, sluicing the blood and the smell of smoke down the drain with it. She washes her hair three times but doesn't feel like drying it when she finally eases herself out of the tub. Instead, she combs through it, does a quick job of braiding it and secures it with an elastic band. Working as quickly as she's able, she duplicates the doctor's work with the wrap, pulling it as tight as possible. Then she dons her sleep pants and a tank top and slides between the crisp, clean sheets.

Exhaustion wars with tension and she stares at the textured ceiling for a long while, thinking about walking out into the damp night with the children and Rossi beside her. He was herding them all out, but he didn't take his eyes off of her for more than a few seconds until it was all over.

After Indianapolis, there had been a night out at a bar with everyone but Garcia and a conversation ostensibly about Penelope and Kevin and fraternization. He minimized his reputation while admitting to having dated a few coworkers in the past, but never another field agent. "_It's dangerous; you can't go into a potentially volatile situation and have that kind of emotional baggage. It's hard enough when you're friends with your team."_ She had turned it over in her mind for days afterwards, wondering if there was there a hidden meaning. Was he telling her he knew she was attracted but they could never be involved? Or was he saying he knew she was attracted and using their position on the team as a way to tell her he just wasn't interested? Or was it really just about Garcia and Kevin?

It had given her a headache trying to figure it out then. It's making the headache she has now worse.

They're teammates. It doesn't stop her from wanting but that's all they'll ever be and that's that. Time to think of something less crazy making.

Like what she's going to do with the time she knows she's going to be forced to take when they get back. She's been thinking about painting her bedroom. A few days of leave would be good for that. A brick red with a gold glaze would be nice, but then she'd have to buy a new comforter and drapes…

She sleeps.

Three days without any appreciable rest and the Percocet the ER doctor had given her insures she sleeps through the day. When Prentiss wakes it's dark and she can hear voices in the hall, Morgan and Reid, if she's not mistaken. Without thinking, she moves too quickly, trying to hurry to catch them before they move away. She regrets the hasty move immediately as her ribs question her sanity. She stops, takes a breath---a shallow one, and moves slowly to the door.

When the door opens, she sees Reid and Morgan standing outside the room across from hers. It looks like they've been having some sort of disagreement, albeit a civil one. They both turn when her door opens; Reid looks guilty and Morgan looks something between sympathetic and pissed.

"Prentiss." The way Morgan says her last name sometimes makes her think he's saying "Princess" and she always smiles, shaking her head at least half a beat into a double take, because that would be just the kind of cool move he would play if they were more than teammates.

"Hi, guys." She wraps her arms around herself and blinks at the bright lights in the hall, fighting the disorientation brought on by waking up at night and the lingering soporific effects of the painkillers. "What's going on?"

Of course it's Morgan that answers, since Reid is flushing and looking anywhere except directly at her. "We were just coming to see if you wanted to get a bite to eat."

It clicks then; Morgan was trying to force Reid to face her. "That would be great." Smiling, she makes a vague motion toward her room. "Let me put some clothes on and I'll be right out."

"Actually," Reid says, "I'm just gonna…go…" he makes a vague motion of his own toward what she assumes is his room, "you know, do some reading."

Nodding, she tries to catch his eye, but he's pretty well fixed on his feet and the floor, unmindful of Morgan shaking his head in obvious disgust. That's all right with her; she's too tired to fight this fight tonight anyway. "OK. Well, I'll be out in a minute, Derek." Reid's eyes are still downcast and he has never looked quite as boyish and lost since she's known him. When she heaves out a large breath, she wishes she hadn't and she's glad Reid is looking down and Morgan's looking at Reid and neither sees her grimace at the pain. "Goodnight, Spencer."

Ducking back into her room, she throws a blouse on over the tank top not bothering to button it and switches her sleep pants for jeans. Studying her reflection in the mirror she sees the lip is already a bit better, it certainly doesn't hurt as much, but the eye looks a lot worse, so, she doesn't apply any make-up, because, really, why bother? But she does brush her teeth and shake her hair out of its braid. _If I had let my bangs grow out I could just sweep them over like Veronica Lake_, she thinks. As it is, she knows it will be at least a week before she even thinks about wearing her hair pulled back when she goes out in public.

When she leaves her room, Morgan is leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, jaw clenched, oozing irritation. His stance softens a little when he sees her. "How are you doing?"

"Eh," she starts to shrug, then thinks better of it. "A little sore and a lot tired; but it's not too bad."

His dark eyes look appraisingly at her and she looks back unapologetically and unflinchingly. If she can't fool Morgan, there's no way in Hell she'll be able to put anything over on Rossi. After a minute, his face clears and he reaches out to touch her shoulder gently. "I'm glad. I was scared he was going to beat you to death."

"I keep telling everyone it's not as bad as it looks."

"As long as it isn't as bad as it sounded." Morgan's voice is grim. He nods towards Reid's room. "As flipped out as he is now, if he had heard it…"

"I know." Looping her hair behind her ear, she shakes her head. "I'll talk to him; I'm just not up to chasing him tonight."

The last is said with a tinge of exasperation and Derek smiles. "I don't know, Prentiss. He's smart; I bet he'll be tricky to catch."

"Oh, please," she rolls her eyes in mock disgust, "actually chasing would be a rookie mistake. I'm going to trap him where he can't run away. I'll get him on the jet on the way back."

"Good plan," he nods approvingly, grinning.

His demeanor has lightened with the teasing and she feels like she just might be able to pull this off. "Didn't you say you were buying me dinner?"

He pretends to bristle. "I said no such thing. I asked if you wanted to get a bite to eat."

"You issued an invitation, the assumption being you were buying my dinner." She runs her fingers through her bangs and starts down the hall.

He shortens his stride to match hers, but his tone is loaded with his usual overblown arrogance. "Prentiss, if you want the full Derek Morgan experience, you didn't have to go to these lengths. All you had to do was ask."

She laughs as she shakes her head. "Maybe I should buy your dinner. It must get expensive feeding you _and _your ego."

"Where do you want to go?" He's holding the door for her and thankfully, he hasn't commented on her slow progress.

Pointing toward her cheek, she gives him a dubious smile. "Somewhere dark."

In the end, they can't find anywhere dark enough, so they choose a nearly deserted diner and Morgan flips his badge at the waitress, cutting down on the staring and speculation. Even though she isn't very hungry, she finds a cheeseburger and some fries along with a little bit of undemanding company is just what she needs. Derek is just Derek; they're teammates and that makes them friends.

He slept a good chunk of the day, too, and they aren't leaving until late afternoon the next day, so, he's in no hurry to get back to the hotel. They sit in the diner for several hours. Even though she didn't' finish her meal, he talks her into trying the chocolate cake and he ends up eating most of it. He treats her more like a sister than a co-worker and she's glad for the lightness and teasing. It looks effortless, the way he doesn't mention Benjamin Cyrus or Liberty Ranch, and by the time they do head back to the hotel, she's a lot less tense and feels a lot more human.

There's no underlying message or meaning when he tells her to get a good night's sleep. She responds in kind and goes into her room, automatically locking and latching the door after herself. It was a nice evening and she's grateful for the normalcy, even though there's an edge of pretend to it. Tomorrow she'll deal with Reid, and after that it's just a matter of picking up her daily life again.

Once her eye heals and the lawyer that lives in the townhouse across from hers asks her out again she's going to say yes. It doesn't matter that it's not his face in her fantasies, not his voice that shoots straight through her making her want all kinds of dirty and delicious things. It doesn't matter. Dating someone would be normal; having someone that bought her dinner and bitched about her schedule would be ordinary. It would be real, and not something she wonders if it's all in her head. Then maybe, just maybe, she could stop reading things into heated gazes from dark eyes and urgent comments about getting her out of dangerous situations. And that would make her feel a lot more sane she thinks as she slips off her shoes.

She's not ready to sleep, but she hates the television and her lingering headache makes it uncomfortable and unwise to read. Instead, she digs her iPod out of her bag and punches the playlist she had very creatively named _Quiet_ and allowed Edie Brickel, _Sarah McLachlan_and Yo Yo Ma to let her forget her cracked rib and bruised heart.

By the time she hears the knocking she's more than half way through _Quiet_ and she's been half drowsing through the last three songs. The cadence and volume of the knocking makes her suspect it's been going on for awhile. _Hotch_, she thinks. "Just a second!" she calls as she rips her earbuds out and moves as quickly as she can towards the door. Taking a quick peek through the hotel room peephole she is bewildered to see it's not Hotch but Rossi.

And she's already let him know she's there and awake.

_Fuck._

Not answering at this point is going to make him ask more questions the next time she sees him, but she doesn't know if she's ready to face him and she doesn't know what he wants.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck._

She's practically dancing with anxiety when he raises his fist and knocks again.

_Fuck._

Taking a deep breath, she moves the latch out of the way, turns the deadbolt and opens the door.

Despite the energy behind his knocking, he's not in a hurry to speak. His expression is almost bleak and it confuses her.

"Rossi?" He appears to be taking stock of her. She can almost see him taking inventory: _posture, body language, facial cues._ Of course, she reacts by schooling her face and body to neutral, but she also knows it's too late. Whatever he was looking for she gave to him before she even realized he was looking. "What's up?"

Indicating her room with an inclination of his head, "Can we go inside?"

"I was just getting ready to call it a night." The quirk of one eyebrow lets her know he not only doubts her, he doesn't give a damn if she had been dead-ass asleep. He wants to talk to her, and if she doesn't let him in, he has no compunction about having any kind of conversation in the middle of the hotel hallway. She sighs and makes a helpless gesture. "Sure, come in."

"Thanks," his tone is threaded through with irony.

The desk chair is the only one in the room, and the idea of sitting on the bed with him watching her makes her feel vulnerable and flushed, so she leans against the dresser instead. She's expecting him to take the chair. Instead he stands in front of her, just on the edge of her personal space and his eyes are so dark they're black. The silence stretches to the point of breaking, and his gaze is so heavy she feels the weight of it on her skin. "Dave?"

"I need to see." There's a raw edge to his voice that makes her shiver and wince at the same time.

"What?" She suspects she knows what he's asking, but it's not only safer to pretend she doesn't know what he means, she needs a minute to process the meaning beyond the obvious.

"Emily…" the way he says her name is a question and a plea. His hands come up and cup her cheeks, causing her to draw in a shaky, surprised breath. They have never been this close. He's never touched her beyond a helping hand. But this? This is dizzying. "I need to see."

Briefly, she thinks about lying, saying the black eye is the extent of it. But one look at his face and she knows whatever she thinks she's protecting by lying wouldn't be worth what she'd be breaking.

He's looking at her with a look of such stunning intensity she's suddenly having trouble breathing. There's a pain in the center of her chest that has nothing to do with her injuries and _fuck_ she doesn't know what it means, that look, his face, his eyes…

Then, his expression shifts and softens and he drops his hands to her shoulders and slowly, gently pushes the blouse off and down her arms. Standing there, blinking, as he carefully drapes her shirt over the chair, she feels nearly naked and very exposed and then she feels ridiculous for it. It's not a skimpy tank top; he's seen her in less, the whole team has. When he turns back to her the look is still there but there's a frown, too, as he studies the bandage and the bruise on her arm. His touch is tender as he takes it in both of his hands. He pauses a moment, before cradling her forearm in one hand and carefully pulling back the bandage and exposing the wound. It's red and ugly; the sight of the black sutures against the raw skin makes her a little queasy, makes her want to shudder.

There's a part of her that wants to ask what he's doing, stop him, be indignant or at the very least, more assertive about what's happening here. But this is Rossi and from the first moment she saw him there was something there; it wasn't so much meeting him as it was _recognizing_ him. And right now this gruff, arrogant, brilliant, bristly man is looking at her with such tenderness she doesn't know how she's still standing on such wobbly knees.

A stern voice inside of her speaks up and warns her against falling into traps set up by emotional moments, lists guilt and stress as causes for his behavior, warns her about dignity and preserving her feelings.

And another voice inside is crying, _too late, too late, too fucking late_.

Still holding her arm, he bends and delicately touches his lips to the stitched cut, then with the same light brush of lips, the red and purple bruise just south of the wound.

When she was six years old, two weeks before Christmas Emily's nanny had bought her a cheap plastic snow globe with a winter scene glued to the bottom: a tree, a sled, a snow man and a child (she could never determine if it was a boy or a girl). She spent hours turning it and watching the snow fall and settle gently. Then three days before Christmas, she had accidentally knocked the snow globe off her bedside table. The child figure had broken at the base, and when she turned it from then on, the figure would rattle through the scene and fall back to the snowy ground with a cacophonic clank. No matter how gently or carefully she turned or manipulated the plastic bubble, she couldn't get the child to stand again.

Her memory clearly recalls the tiny plastic figure now as she looks at Rossi's head bent over her arm. She imagines this is what it felt like to be the one without anchor or hold, being thrown in the air and now she's the one scrambling, scrabbling for purchase. But, then, he rests his cheek against her arm and she suddenly feels very grounded. She forgets everything but the feel of his skin against hers and the way the light touches his hair. Really, she can't help it; she reaches out with her free hand and buries her fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck, a little bit in love with the texture of it and the way he sighs at her touch.

Then he straightens and she's wrapped in his arms before she can process how it happens. His hug is gentle and warm and comforting and, God help her, she feels safe and that immediately panics her. But the panic doesn't last. How could it last with Dave Rossi pressing light, exquisitely gentle kisses over her eyes, her cheek, her temple? He brushes slight, soothing kisses over her lips and her cheeks, then he breathes, "I need to see, Emily."

Swallowing heavily, she nods and takes a step back from him and pulls the scoop neck of the tank top down so he can see the other bandage. His frown is quick and pained and he reaches for her again; his fingers are so warm over the skin of her breast that she shivers. He repeats his actions from earlier, carefully removing the bandage then pressing his cheek against her breast. His skin is warm and his goatee prickles a little but she's glad for the slight discomfort; it's a reminder that this is real, this is happening. She's not sure what it means, but it is happening and that is enough for her right now, in this moment.

His arms are around her again and his breath moves her bangs as he sighs and asks, "Is that everything?"

Gingerly, she guides one of his hands beneath her tank top to rest against the ace bandage; he gives half a groan, but one thick finger traces the edge of one loop. "Broken?"

"One cracked, two bruised."

Drawing a quick breath in through his teeth, he rests his cheek against her hair. "Is that it?"

She doesn't roll her eyes, but her tone sounds very much like she wants to. "Isn't that enough?"

Grunting out a half laugh, he presses a kiss to her forehead. "No, that's good."

Everything feels unreal. Is she really standing in the middle of a hotel room in David Rossi's arms? She supposes Cyrus could have given her a concussion and she could be hallucinating this. But then Rossi is pulling her over to the bed and she knows she couldn't imagine the way his fingers feel on her shoulders when he urges her to lie down.

_A dream then_, she thinks. But then he toes off his shoes and climbs onto the bed with her, gently, gently pulling her close against him. Her head naturally falls to his shoulder and she breathes him in. He smells so good it's hard to concentrate on his words when he starts talking.

"That was the hardest thing I've ever had to do, listen to that bastard beat you." His voice is angry and tinged with agony.

She wants to make some flip comment about it not being the easiest thing she's ever done, but decides it's probably for the best if she keeps it to herself.

"It's not a situation I ever expected to be in and it absolutely tested the boundaries of my ability to be objective." His voice is quiet, reflective.

Snorting out a laugh, she looks up at him, her good cheek pressed against him. "You call this objective?"

The half smile he gives her is the one that never fails to make her stomach flutter. "No. That's the point." He shifts so they're facing each other. "I've suspected since shortly after meeting you that you might be attracted to me. Am I right?"

Her cheeks flame instantly. His phrasing is merely to preserve her pride. He's a profiler, an expert at reading people, plus it's not like he doesn't know the signs of an interested woman. He knows full well she's more than attracted. "Maybe," she concedes.

He's grinning cockily and his smile does such amazing things to his eyes. "Well, I am _definitely_ attracted to you; have been from day one, okay?"

Now she's flushed for a different reason and is suddenly shy about meeting his eyes. "Okay."

"If I'm honest, and I really think I need to be here, it goes beyond attraction." He loops her hair behind her ear and frowns at the bruise on her face. "Do you know why I've never made a move?"

She does. Everything is starting to make delicious, wonderful sense and she's nearly giddy with it. "Because you're a big old chicken?"

He blinks at her. "Prentiss," he's using his tough guy, bad ass voice, "did you just call me chicken?"

"If the feather fits…"

"Oh, I see." He's nodding sagely, lightness and relief under his mock offended words. "Try to have a serious conversation with you and you throw my professional standards back at me."

She's laughing. It doesn't matter that it hurts or she might be too loud. Rossi is holding her and he cares about her and how insane has the last ninety-six hours been? Burrowing against him, burying her nose against his neck, she sighs. "Because you weren't confident in your ability to remain objective if you were in the field with someone you were involved with. You were concerned any…personal interaction might get in the way of the job."

He pulls her hand up and kisses her fingers. "That's right."

"And you're chicken." She's sassy and ecstatic and _oh dear heaven Rossi is in bed with her_.

"I am not now, nor have I ever been chicken." He's frowning at her but his eyes are bright.

Emily gives him the full benefit of her widest smile and asks, "So, you're crying fowl?"

Pretending to growl, he narrows his eyes at her. "You're asking for it, Prentiss."

"Why, yes, as a matter of fact, I am." Her tone is exceptionally saucy and he cocks an eyebrow at her, but lets the innuendo go unanswered as he sobers.

"I'm not saying I was able to be objective. Seriously, Em, I don't ever want to have to do anything like that again." His arm tightens around her. "But I was able to do my job and I trusted you to do yours. I hope we never have to test it, but I think we would be okay." His breath gusts against her hair as he sighs. "I don't think it could be any worse."

She refrains from admonishing him about tempting fate; whatever happened in the future she's here and he's here and it's good. It's better than good. "So, now what?" The question isn't all that serious, just one more thing to tether herself to the situation because at this point she's so light she's at risk of floating away.

"So, now, we go to sleep." He catches sight of her expression and makes a noise somewhere between a grunt and a snort. "Sleep, Prentiss. Just sleep." He closes his eyes. "I had no idea you were such a letch."

"It hasn't occurred to you that we are in a hotel surrounded by our coworkers?" The protest is more for show than from any real concern. The idea of sleeping with him before she _sleeps_ with him is wonderfully intimate and amazingly ordinary.

One eye opens and he looks smug. "I've been with the FBI over twenty years, plus I've been married and divorced three times and you don't think I'm capable of sneaking out of a hotel room?"

His hand is rubbing lightly up and down her back in a soothing rhythm and she wishes she could stop smiling. It's making her face hurt more. But, honestly, it's worth it; a whole lot of joy for a little bit of pain. "Okay, let's say you manage to successfully sneak out of my hotel room, then what?" It doesn't really matter, she's just not ready to let go of this feeling and go to sleep yet.

He seems to know she's not really questioning him, because he's smiling with his eyes closed. "Then you let me make you dinner this weekend."

"Oh, I do? Okay." She leans up and presses a kiss to his jaw. "What are you feeding me?"

Cracking one eye open, his lips twitch. "Chicken."


End file.
